


Hunting Shadows

by HomeIsSpelledKAZ2Y5



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Established Relationship, First Time, Hunter Castiel, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, OTP Feels, One Shot, Spitroasting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 06:11:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4655622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HomeIsSpelledKAZ2Y5/pseuds/HomeIsSpelledKAZ2Y5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>S8. Castiel is intent on saving people, hunting things, and Dean kind of wants to discourage him – but a job in South Carolina convinces both he and Sam that Cas knows what he's doing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunting Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place at some point after Hunteri Heroici but before anything else majorly canonical happens. 
> 
> Hill Temple is not in S.C., but Cambodia. (Yoink.)

Pretending to check sizes on Walmart's finest button-down shirts, Dean studies Castiel over the rack. He looks fine. Dean has no idea why Sam elected to stay behind in the motel room, and even less why he'd muttered, “Make sure Cas is all right,” as Dean passed him on the way out.

The angel in question is currently holding up two packs of socks, comparing them with a frown and furrowed brow. He looks the same to Dean as he always has; rumpled trench coat, backwards tie, all that jazz. Not even his hair has changed.

Well, he's aged a little--but Dean guesses that life on Earth with a steadily dwindling store of mojo will do that to you. He's proud of Castiel, actually, because if Dean were slowly dying he knows there would be a hell of a lot more drinking and carrying on.

He knows Cas isn't dying, just falling, but sometimes he wonders if it doesn't feel the same.

Just then, Castiel looks up. Dean busies himself with the shirts like he wasn't just staring for the past few minutes.

“Dean.”

He looks up from his fumbling to see a very intense look of consternation on Castiel's face.

“Yeah, what's up?” he asks easily.

“Do you get blisters?”

Amused, Dean looks at the packages in Castiel's hands. They're both full of thick work socks.

“I wouldn't with those,” he says. He looks at the shelf tag, and whistles. Those are fucking _expensive_. He'd never even considered owning socks that cost as much as a pair of jeans.

Castiel nods, and puts both packages in the cart. “Then we will all wear them,” he says, with finality.

He moves on to the next rack, flipping through pairs of cargo shorts like Dean will let him wear them. Drawing the line has never been Dean's strong suit, but he has to do it somewhere. Shorts, period; never mind shorts you can put a travel mug and a turtle in.

(Yes, hush. He remembers he wore shorts. He remembers they were tiny, and red, and that the whistle didn't make him god of anyone. Look at all the fucks he gives.

Fourth wall? What fourth wall?)

“Hey, Cas?” The words are out of Dean's mouth before he's even thought about what he's going to say.

Blue eyes find his again. “Yes?”

 _Oh, right,_ “Are you sure you wanna hunt with us? I mean –“ he barrels right over Castiel's attempt to answer, “it might look like fun, but it's dangerous work, and with you all powered down--”

“I am able,” Castiel interrupts, insistent.

“You could get hurt,” Dean counters.

“Then you'll patch me up, won't you? Just like you and Sam do when one of you gets hurt.” Castiel has the most stubborn look on his face. “I may be basically mortal now, Dean, but I am not helpless.”

Dean murmurs, “No, you're not.”

Castiel doesn't seem to have heard him. He turns back to the rack, throwing the shorts aside one by one with undue force. “I have just as much a right to hunt down the evil in this world as you, or Sam, or anyone else who does so,” he rants, quiet but seething. “I have seen the way you work. I have studied your methods, more so than anyone else. I think that I should be able to--”

“Cas,” Dean says, halting his tirade with a hand on one khaki-covered bicep. It's warm.

The cloth rustles as Castiel turns in his grasp. “Dean,” he says, so many things behind that tone; power and loss, fear and desire. “I want to _do something.”_

“I know,” Dean says, a little hoarse for some reason. He lets go of Castiel's arm, suddenly unsure of what to do with his hands. “You're the same as me. We gotta move, gotta do what's right by everybody who doesn't know what's out there.”

“Yes,” Castiel softly agrees.

They're standing mere inches from one another, in the middle of Walmart, when Dean gets the strangest, silliest urge.

He could lean down that scant distance and kiss Castiel.

Blinking, he shies away, back to the other rack, trying a bolstering smile so Cas doesn't get suspicious. “You're gonna need some layers,” he says. His fingers fumble through the shirts, but that doesn't mean a thing. Neither does the way his heart is racing. “It gets cold in graveyards at night.”

“Cold,” Castiel muses, far closer to Dean than he was. “I'll have to get used to that.”

“Yeah, it sucks, but there's usually fire involved,” Dean says. He smiles--

and Castiel grins back, wide and gummy, like he never did before this week.

Stunned, Dean can only grin as well.

“We'll get you used to the cold,” he promises after a beat, and can see that Castiel hears the deeper meaning behind it: _We'll make you a bonafide one of us, just you wait and see._

 

* * *

 

When they arrive back at the bunker, laden with a whole backseat-full of new supplies for Cas, Sam has found them a job. It seems to be something they've never seen before. The articles online are only three days old.

Dean peers over his brother's shoulder at the screen.

“What the hell's that gibberish?”

“It's called Khmer,” _you ignoramus_ , says Sam's tone. “It's the national language of Cambodia.”

“Can you speak--that?” Dean asks, not even trying.

“I can,” Castiel says. Sam taps the zoom controls so he can see it more clearly. Castiel clears his throat, and says something that Dean's brain flat-out refuses to compute.

“What was that?” Dean squints down at the squiggly characters.

“ _Borsa mneak... del chea sramol,”_ Castiel says, more clearly. “It translates to 'shadow man'.”

“What,” Dean says flatly.

“I'm not sure,” Sam replies. “It looks like some kind of shifter, with the perks of a siren... or succubus, something like that.” He looks more intrigued than confused. “Apparently, it's only one entity, but appears as two. 'They' call themselves Shawn, and Jesse.”

The studiously blank expression painting over Sam's face doesn't make sense to Dean until his brother clicks something else.

“What the fuck in fucking hell?” Dean yelps.

“I know,” Sam says, world-weary.

“That's--”

“I _know.”_

“That's fucking _us_ , Sam.” Dean leans into his brother's space, nearly pressing his nose to the screen.

Sam heaves a sigh.

There, in buzzing digital color, is a photo that should not exist. Two smiling young men stand with their arms around one another, in front of a very yellow building. They look happy, successful--and just like a younger Sam and Dean.

Dean blinks, hard.

They're still there.

Castiel moves in closer, and peers down at it. He inhales sharply. “They are _wrong,”_ he says darkly.

“How did they even do that?” Dean asks him.

“It is not uncommon for some types of shifters to emulate images they find,” Castiel says, still staring at the photo. “Your old mugshots, perhaps, from the public record. But their faces look...” He leans even closer.

Between them, Sam shifts.

Castiel makes a disgruntled noise and leans back. “They're not precise replicas. It's unsettling.”

 _And the resemblance isn't?_ Dean thinks, definitely unsettled. It's creepy, is what it is, to see his own face smiling wider than he ever has in his life. Snugged up so close to Sam, too. It all ties his gut into knots.

Aloud and completely at a loss, he asks his brother, “So it's... what, eating people?”

Sam glances up at him with an exasperated moue. “Are you gonna read it all from there, or back up a few steps so I can tell you?”

Dean steps back. He feels the chill of the room in places where he hadn't even realized he'd been pressed against Sam's shoulder.

“It's been _meeting_ people,” Sam tells him.

“...what?”

“It's been, I don't know, making friends. Gathering some kind of following.” Sam clicked to another tab. “This is a bar it purchased and refurbished into some kind of teens' club, in... Hill Temple, South Carolina.” He scrolls down to another photo. “They call it The Sunspot.”

Staring down at the photo of that blinding yellow building, and a handful of equally blinding smiles, Dean frowns. “So it's being nice?”

“Yeah, but get this.” Sam clicks on the next tab. “Three bodies were found within a five-mile radius of the place in the first six months it was open.”

On this page, three photos stand out: two girls, and a guy. All three look like they're freshman or sophomores in high school, fresh-faced and eager for a future they'd no longer get to see.

“The autopsies showed intense cardiac stress before they died,” Sam tells Dean and Castiel, “but also that it had been building for some time. Like, they were anxious, but didn't know it was that serious.”

“Did they die of heart attacks?” Castiel asks.

 _That's my boy,_ Dean thinks with pride. He squashes down all the times he thought that about Sam, because most of them have pain attached.

“No, that's the weird thing,” Sam replies. “Cause of death is listed as exhaustion.”

“So they partied to death?” Dean laughs. “That sounds like--”

He stops. Sam is scrolling down, and the photos on the screen are now of the victims' feet. Bare, bloodied, mangled like so much raw meat. There's grass and bits of detritus ground in to the flesh.

Castiel says it first: “They were running.”

All three pairs of eyes trace the lines of stark red.

“Looks like we're heading to friggin' South Carolina,” Dean grouses, turning away. “I'll prep the car. Cas, with me.”

The angel perks up.

“Gotta teach you how to do this, too.” _Just in case_ , he thinks.

He can feel Sam looking at him, but he doesn't want to have that conversation, so he keeps walking toward the stairs.

 

* * *

 

Six hours later, they're on the road.

Castiel has taken to the hunters' life like he was born on this planet. He sharpened a machete to a razor's edge, packed his duffel so meticulously that not even John Winchester could have found fault with it, and the pistol that Dean taught him how to clean hasn't functioned that well in years.

He even looks the part now, in his plaid and layers, a stiff new pair of jeans and one of Dean's old pairs of boots. He's rolled his sleeves up to the elbow, and the sight of forearms is so foreign to Dean that he keeps finding himself glancing over.

Sam has noticed.

Earlier, he caught Dean by the arm and held him captive, letting Castiel go on up the stairs from the garage without them.

Dean looked from Sam's hand on him, to Sam. “Got somethin' on your mind, Sammy?”

“You've been looking at Cas a lot.” There was subtle amusement on Sam's face, something Dean did not appreciate. Sam could jump in a lake--and _not_ drown, thanks--because he didn't get to just assume about stuff.

“I'm worried about him,” Dean snapped in reply. “You are, too, unless there was some _other_ hidden agenda to that Walmart trip.”

Sam gave him a look that clearly said Dean was a moron.

“Yeah, I know. Get to know him better, figure out what's up.” Dean scowled at his brother. “He's not a witness, or a suspect, Jack Bauer. So lay off.”

“Look, I'm just worried, is all.” Sam glanced up the stairs, and sighed. “He really wants to hunt.”

“And he'll probably be better at it than you, so what's the problem?”

Sam rolled his eyes at that. “All right, asshole. Get back to me when you're ready to take this seriously.”

“I am taking this seriously! He passed the friggin' tests, what am I supposed to do? Tell him he can't come?” Dean snorted. “You tell him.”

“No, just...” At a loss for words, Sam shook his head. He moved toward the stairs. “I'm gonna make sure we have enough silver _and_ bronze for the three of us, because we still don't know what this thing is.”

“Sam.”

“I don't know, dude.” And that was that, apparently.

Now, Dean has to deal with knowing that his brother is watching intently from the corner of his eye whenever Dean glances too long in the rear view mirror. In the back seat, Castiel sits placidly gazing out the window, unaware of the silent contention in the front.

They're blasting down an empty US 36, the sun is blazing overhead, and Axl Rose is screaming from the speakers. It's a good day.

Dean has a slowly sinking feeling that it's not going to stay that way.

 

* * *

 

They get a room at the Silver Dollar Motel. It's done in incongruous shades of puce and lavender; same old, same old. They could sleep for a little bit, but nobody wants to lay around on this one, and plus--Dean is perfectly fine with a whole pot of diner coffee poured down his throat. He feels like he could save the whole world.

Resplendent in cheap suits, they head to the home of the first victim's family. Castiel is wearing one of Dean's backups. It's a little big on him. Dean has to keep resisting the urge to adjust the angel's tie. He doesn't know how every single one Castiel wears ends up flipped around and weird. He'd say it was an angel thing, but the other dickbags always looked like they'd been peeled from the stylish pages of a 'CIA-agents'-wear' catalog.

Whatever.

The girl's parents don't appear to be home, even though there are cars in the driveway. There's no movement inside. Dean considers breaking in, but they might actually need the testimony at some point, and if they startle Mr and Mrs Stepford while they're doing fuck-all knows what in there, they're likely to get themselves arrested, instead. He doesn't suggest it.

Sam works his mouth around like he does when he's puzzling out their options. “We could go to the sites where they found the bodies,” he muses. “Or, we could check out this Sunspot.”

Instead of deciding himself, Dean turns to Cas. “Would you rather squat in dirt, or get a burger?”

_“Dean.”_

Castiel considers this. “Burger,” he says eventually, and Dean turns a triumphant expression on Sam--

who just shakes his head with a knowing smile. That wipes the smirk right off Dean's face.

“Shut up, Cinderella,” he grouses. “Just cos you love squatting in dirt--”

Sam laughs at him. "That doesn't make any sense.”

“I'll sense you,” Dean grumbles.

Sam just laughs louder. That doesn't happen much anymore, so even though Dean pretends to be peeved, he secretly enjoys it while he can.

 

* * *

 

The Sunspot is very, very yellow.

Dean squints at it. “Didn't we stay somewhere that looked like this?”

“Uhh...” Sam thinks, then snaps his fingers. “Michigan. Twice. Dad picked the same motel the second time in that blizzard, remember?”

“Yeah,” Dean says with a whistle. “He was _pissed_.” That was one of the lessons: never the same place twice. That was how you got dead. However, John also had a strict “no refunds” policy, regardless of their meager income -- so they spent a night in the highlighter-yellow room with their father, on full alert, until the roads were clear.

The outside walls of the Sunspot are painted a similarly cornea-rupturing lemon hue. Little colored flags adorn the gutters, as do perfectly racked strings of Christmas lights. The hedges are low, well-trimmed, and the tables dotting the outside deck each sport a bottle of ketchup and another little flag. It's welcoming, in a sick sort of way. Knowing what built the place just makes it skeevier.

When Dean pulls the door open, the door _whistles_ at him.

“Welcome to the Sunspot!” gushes a hostess from her podium. She's petite, with large, slightly manic eyes. There's a feather tucked behind her ear. “Table for three?”

“No, actually, we'd like to speak with your supervisor,” Castiel says calmly at Dean's elbow, surprising the hell out of Dean. A quick glance shows him the angel has got his FBI badge the right way up.

The girl's eyes go even wider. “Sure! Oh, my God... yes, let me get him, hold on just a second--do you want coffee? _Georgia,”_ she shouts in a stressed-out tone, “get these guys some coffee!”

 _“Wouldn't they rather have a vegan smoothie?”_ comes the faint reply. _“I just bought some fresh kale!”_

One of Dean's eyelids twitches.

"It'll just be a moment,” the hostess trills to the three of them, and bustles back along the rows of tables toward a hallway marked 'Offices'.

It isn't long before she returns with a smiling, gangly young man in tow. He looks remarkably like Sam did, the year before he left for Stanford. Just like the photo, it's a sucker punch to Dean's gut, and he takes instant dislike to this floppy-haired motherfucker.

“Hey, guys! I'm Shawn,” dude says. “What can I do ya for?”

Yep, Dean hates him.

“I'm Agent Walsh,” Sam tells him. “These are Agents Livgren, and Hope. We're investigating a series of deaths in this area, do you have a minute?”

“Sure,” Shawn says. He's doing a remarkable job of looking concerned. “Let's head back to my office.”

“I'll scope the place out,” Castiel mutters to Dean, hanging back.

Dean raises an eyebrow at him, a lopsided grin lifting the corner of his mouth.

Frowning, Castiel asks, “Is that not how you say it?”

“Nah, you got it,” Dean says, grin widening. He claps him on the shoulder. “Right on. You scope.”

He follows the other two.

 

* * *

 

It's difficult to keep himself from (completely objectively!) comparing the way they're walking ahead of him—which, any way he slices it, is still two sets of Sammy hips--but Dean has a lot of practice denying himself what he wants.

It's still a near thing.

 

* * *

 

The office is done in a more manageable shade of yellow, like watered-down egg. Dean rests his eyes on it. He takes in the bookshelf full of binders, the organized desk, the poster of grinning orangutans on the wall--it looks like a regular old douchebag office.

Not like it's a surprise that the thing is stealthy, with a name like _shadowman._

“So,” Shawn says, taking the seat behind his desk. “How can I help you gentlemen?”

 _You can start by telling me what the fuck you think you're doing,_ Dean thinks, maintaining a closed expression while Sam says, much more politely, “Well, tell us a little bit about this joint you've got here. Seems like a nice place for kids to hang out.”

“That's pretty much the plan,” the guy says easily. “We wanted to make a place for tweens and teens in the area who didn't want to just go to the movies, or walk around in the mall. Our food is healthier than the town's burger joints, we don't have any arcade games--mostly, we exist just as a social platform.”

“There was a bar here, before?"

“Yes.” A brief moue of distaste, so quickly there and gone that Dean barely caught it. “It was a more... adult-oriented place.”

“Why revamp it?” Dean asks, before he can help himself. He feels insulted on behalf of the bar.

“Well, there are several others in the area,” Sean says with a small smile. “I think the grown-ups can handle losing just one, don't you?”

 _I think I don't like your tone_. “Dunno, did you ask them?” Dean asks. "Or did you just barge in and take over?"

A teensy bit of his utter dislike for the guy might be showing through.

Sam clears his throat. “What my partner means, is: did you experience any hostility when you moved in?"

“There was some contention,” the other man replies, "but the community response has been incredible. Just yesterday, we got fifteen new emails registered for the newsletter.”

He looks so genuinely pleased about that. Fifteen new victims.

Dean is just about done with this guy.

From the doorway, someone purrs, “Hey, you.”

Everybody turns.

A guy who resembles a younger, cockier Dean shoves off his shoulder from the door frame. He saunters into the office, eyes and smirk locked on Shawn. Behind him stands Castiel, with a perturbed look on his face.

The newcomer walks right into shadow-Sam's arms and kisses him. Theatrically. Shawn lets out a pleased little noise. His hands find jawbone, and hip.

This is something Dean has anticipated since he saw their photo, but still could do without seeing. He cuts his eyes to the ground, focusing on a bit of lint caught beneath the desk leg, the linoleum, anything.

Beside him, his brother shifts uncomfortably.

Dean feels Castiel's eyes on him. He's known the angel for four years and never once has this come up--why now? He didn't owe anyone any kind of an explanation.

Sure, he and Sam fooled around when they were younger. It was kind of inevitable, y'know; growing up the way they did, nobody but each other, they just fell in and didn't stop until the knock-down, drag-out screaming match the night Sam left for Stanford.

And that was it.

There have been times over the years that Dean's thought about bringing it up. Asking Sam why he gave up on them, maybe; or just stalking over, grabbing his brother's face and kissing him so hard he stops breathing.

Those thoughts are easy to flood with drink and forget by the time he's hungover. It gets easier every time. There might come a day when it doesn't hurt at all, provided Dean lives to see it.

Finally breaking the kiss, shadow-Dean--who Dean has inferred must be Jesse--turns to them, still in his lover's arms.

“Hey,” he says. “FBI, huh? Your partner seemed to know a thing or two about interrogation.”

“I asked you your name,” Castiel grates. He sounds pissed. It runs right up Dean's spine.

“Sure did,” Jesse replies, “but you didn't tell me why you're here.”

Dean interjects, “We're here because people have died.”

“Not on these premises," returns the other man smoothly.

 _Cheeky little fucker, huh?_ Dean regards him like he does every other monster he's faced down. “You want 'em to?”

There is no way that Jesse can mistake any facet of Dean's implication. The smirk fades, and there's a flicker of steel in his eyes.

“All right,” he says, “so what do you need from us?”

He'd be the very portrait of a helpful restauranteur if not for the tenser way he was now holding his shoulders. He's shifted his weight closer to impostor Sam, too. Dean wonders how 'they' operate; if they really are a single entity somehow disguised as two, like Sam said, or if there are two of them in some kind of symbiotic relationship.

Like mold on a tree--or something even less romantic.

“We need to see that email list,” Sam says, “and speak with your employees.” He stands, and with him on the opposite site of the desk from Shawn, it's like looking in a fun-house mirror. Dean thinks it might be even creepier than the photos.

“Absolutely.” Shadow-Sam nods. "I'm sure they'll be happy to tell you anything you want to know.”

 

* * *

 

They are.

In fact, they're so happy to gush on and on about all of it, Dean has no doubt about the monsters' influence. He hasn't seen this many starry-eyed fans of something since--and he shudders just thinking about it--that Supernatural convention.

He talks with Kleo first. Halfway through their conversation, she sees Jesse, and immediately disregards Dean to flounce over. She's pulled a sketchpad from somewhereand is eagerly showing the man, who looks so interested than Dean tastes bile.

“And look,” he hears her say. “The shading spells his name!”

Dean doesn't want to know.

The next few are relatively helpful--meaning, not in the least. Grandmotherly Sarai has nothing unkind to say about anyone, coworker or employer. She thinks “those boys are so sweet”. Busboy Kyle flat-out tells Dean he doesn't care, he's just here for the paycheck. Wendy and Angela, the two servers on duty, are thick as thieves. They finish each other's sentences. It grates on Dean's brain.

The last person he meets asks that he calls her Mooncloud, which he flat-out refuses to do. He settles for not calling her anything at all. She's basically useless as an interview, because she rambles on about sustainable living and growing your own freaking _kale_ for so long that Dean finally gives up and stands to take his leave.

She blinks up at him.

“Don't you want the recipe?”

“No, thanks,” Dean says, thinking fast, “I, uh, get all my essential amino acids from, uh... amaranth and quinoa.” He thinks he might've seen that on TV.

“Quinoa is such a beautiful ancient grain, isn't it?” she asks him dreamily.

“Sure is,” he says, his smile beginning to strain. The next time she blinks, he's away.

He stalks right on out of the door, thinking that Sam and Castiel can just find him when they're done – but they're already waiting by the car, each with an expression of similar distaste.

“Did you--”

“Don't ask me,” Dean says, “until I have a beer in my hand.”

“We can't just give up now,” Sam protests. “We're no closer than when we started.”

“Dunno what to tell you, Captain Obvious,” Dean says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I've just about had my share of crazy pie today.”

“Perhaps we should speak with some of the adults who used to frequent this bar,” Castiel suggests.

Sam and Dean both turn to look at him.

“They may be able to lend some perspective,” he continues. “But where do we find them?”

Dean snorts. “That's easy. Try any other bar in town.”

 

* * *

 

There are times when Dean curses the necessity of going undercover as a government official, and not being able to do this interview with a goddamn beer in his hand is one of them.

“They're a menace!” rages the man across the table.

He's gone three whiskeys deep in just the past fifteen minutes. Dean is jealous.

“Hey, no arguments here,” he says calmly. “What was the place like before they showed up?”

“It was... well, you're like to hear it from all of us, it was a downright homey place,” the guy tells him glumly. “The regulars all knew one another, knew we could always go back and it'd be there. We could have like-minded conversations 'n shit, you know.” He sighs, glancing around him at the bar they're in. It's a newer place, all fresh paint and lack of memories. “This just ain't the same.”

Dean understands, and tries to convey that he does. Different circumstances, but he'd come to feel the same way about the Roadhouse--and imagines he feels the same dull ache now that it's gone.

“Why couldn't they take over one of the empty lots or stores around town?” chimes in another voice.

A ragged chorus of “yeah!”s rises from all around the room.

“They didn't need to take our spot!”

“They should have built their own!”

“All right, everybody. Take it easy,” Dean says, standing to placate them before a riot breaks out. The last thing they need is drunks storming the gates and chasing this thing off to pilfer another town of its children. “Just one last question: did any of you know one of those three kids who died?”

“I did,” says a low female voice from behind him.

Dean turns. At the table adjacent to his is a woman in a rumpled pantsuit, her close-cropped hairstyle framing a sweet, sad face. She's a few sheets to the wind.

“One of them was my daughter, Nikki,” she says.

A muffled sob; Dean cocks his head to the side, and sees around her the slumped form of a man in the other seat. Her husband, he assumes.

Looks like they've found the Stepfords.

“She was such a good girl,” the woman tells him. “Good marks in school. She wrote poetry.” She sniffs. “She'd always spend time with the same group of friends, so when she started going to this Sunspot place, we thought it'd be good for her to get out and meet more people.”

She draws in a shuddering breath. “But when she kept going, and seemed to be less happy than before, we tried to get her to stop, and she said...” She trails off, pressing white knuckles to her mouth.

“She said she couldn't,” her husband says from behind her, mostly into the crook of his arm. “Said she didn't know why, but she had to keep going in there.”

Dean tries to keep a murderous grimace from surfacing on his face. A fucking compulsion. Most of the kids who went there would never even realize that something was reeling them in--like the employees, they were heart-eyed and stuck staring at those two, friendly faces.

“The night--” The woman hiccuped around a sob. “The night before they found her, she texted me.” Digging in her pocket for her phone, she worked the screen with shaking fingers and handed it over to Dean.

 _something stinks_ , it reads. _I'm going to Shelby's. xo_

“Shelby is---was her friend,” her mother tells him. “Nikki never made it to their house--!” Her voice squeaks as the sentence dies in a fresh wave of tears.

Silently, Dean offers her a napkin, which she accepts and trumpets into.

The husband raises his head, and fixes bloodshot eyes on Dean.

“You fix this, g-man,” he slurs. “You fix this for our little girl.”

“I will do whatever I can to make sure nobody else dies,” Dean promises him, like he always promises everyone.

It's all he can do.

 

* * *

 

That evening, burnt out on dead-end research and tearful testimony from the other two sets of parents, the three of them steadily work their way through two twenty-four packs of cheap beer. Dean is so drunk that his vision is doubling, and still doesn't feel like talking about it.

Castiel can't stop.

“I just don't understand,” he says again, methodically picking the label off of his bottle with the kind of concentration Dean images he must lend to watching humans. “If those girls truly love the monster--why does the monster not feed from the girls?”

“It does, I think,” Sam says, his voice a little thick with alcohol. “Think they need 'em alive.”

“Shit,” Dean says suddenly. “The victims were trying to escape.”

“Well, yeah.” Sam snorts at him.

“No, no, I mean they were trying to escape the – whatever that was, the weirdness.” Dean gestures with his bottle at the door, and his entire world skews to the side. He smiles, feeling it stretch with how drunk he is. It dies when he says, “They _knew_ something was wrong in there.”

“So the--those--they killed them?” Sam asks. His voice cracks, and Dean can't look at his brother just then. He sounds so young. So like he did, when –

Before.

“They didn't need to,” Castiel says, in his lowest register yet. “The negative effect that their influence had on the victims would have driven those to run until their bodies gave out.”

Dean sets his bottle down, but he doesn't have an agenda after that. He doesn't want to think about what Cas just said, or anything he saw today, or the way Sam is looking at him right now.

Condensation builds and slides down the side of the bottle. Dean watches it pick its way through the logo, and down to pool on the table. _It'll leave a ring,_ he thinks, removed.

A hand on his shoulder makes him turn, and lips on his lips, breath on his face, makes him grunt softly into --

Oh, fuck. Cas is kissing him.

Dean hears Sam make some kind of wounded noise beside them, knows he should stop Cas and ask him what the hell he thinks he's doing, but the angel's warm lips on his have effectively shut down every cell in Dean's body. He is unmade as Castiel slides a hand up his neck, cups the back of his head and tips him back, plundering his mouth.

Castiel's tongue is more skilled than Dean would have figured, but he tamps down on his spike of jealousy. Whatever Cas did before now, that's his business. Dean is just –

Well, he's about half hard and gaining.

He only breaks the kiss when Sam unsteadily stands, saying, “I'm gonna--I'm--I just--”

“Sammy,” Dean cuts him off. Castiel is still leaning over him, touching him, so close he's a fucking bonfire against Dean's skin, but Dean is looking at his brother. His gorgeous, dorky brother, who looks like he's trying not to cry.

“Sam,” Dean corrects himself, because it hasn't been okay to call his brother Sammy for awhile now. “I wanted to ask you, man, but you never brought it up, either.”

“Brought--what?” Sam's sad and clueless look should not be so endearing.

“I thought,” Dean starts, and then realizes what he's about to say, and shuts his mouth with a snap.

Of course, Sam won't let him off that easily.

“Thought what?”

 _Oh, shit,_ Dean thinks. _He's got his deducing face on._

_Might as well man up and tell him._

“I thought you didn't want me anymore,” he says, feeling horribly pathetic as he does.

Sam's burst of laughter and the utter joyous shock on his face don't lessen that, but the swell in Dean's heart when he sees crashes right over the top of it.

“You idiot!” Sam is chortling. He plops back down in his chair. One long arm shoots out like a viper, and he's snagged Dean's hand before Dean can blink. Sam holds it in both of his. It's--it's kind of romantic. Dean almost can't handle it.

Sam looks him in the eye and says, “I thought _you_ didn't want _me,”_ with a watery smile trembling his lips up toward the end of the sentence.

“He will always want you,” Castiel says. They both look up at him, but he's looking at Dean. “He will always love you.” His expression is inscrutable. It isn't until he begins to pull away that Dean gets it.

Snagging Castiel around his waist, Dean reels him in. “I'm allowed to want more than one person.” He leans back to raise his eyebrows at Sam. “Right?”

“I'm down if he is,” Sam says, grinning. “I think that could work.”

“I--” Castiel says. He sits back down like he suddenly weighs far more. He blinks a few times, unfocused. “I did not consider that."

Concerned, Dean asks, “Is it okay?” He leans forward, letting Sam keep his one hand but reaching for Castiel with the other. He doesn't know what he'll do if Cas says no.

“Of course it is,” the angel says. He still sounds shocked, but all around his eyes and mouth is lifting, a smile without his lips. “It's fine...”

“Good,” Dean says, leaning forward, and kisses him again.

Sam's hands tighten around his.

This kiss is slower, more convincing than incendiary. Castiel takes his time, like he's reassuring himself that Dean is still here, still kissing him, and Dean gives back with gusto. He hasn't forgotten Sam, though, and when Cas lets him up for air Dean immediately reels his brother in.

They halt, barely an inch apart. Dean can smell Sam's familiar mix of scents, his eyes are mapping every one of the little details he used to covet on Sam's face, and Sam's eyes, God; they're on fire in the light from the bedside lamps, ruddy gold and flecks of bronze.

“You are so,” Dean says, the sentence ending in a helpless noise when he pitches forward and catches Sam's lips with his.

 _Fuck,_ he missed this, the way Sam's kisses feel, the way he opens up and meets Dean's tongue with his, wet and dirty. Somewhere along the line, he got even better at this. It's not long before he's pressing into Dean, sitting up as straight as he can so Dean is forced to arch in his arms. He's so goddamn tall. Even sitting, he towers over Dean. When the kiss breaks, Dean gets stuck staring up into those eyes, feeling kept and wanted and slutty as hell.

He turns to Castiel, then back to Sam, looking between them to make sure they both know they're included.

“I want you to fuck me,” he tells them both.

 _We've been wasting time,_ he doesn't say.

 _We could all be dead tomorrow._ He doesn't say that, either.

They both seem to get it, though, because they converge on him with one mind, seamless intent, and begin divesting him of his clothes. He's glad; being drunk as he is and this turned on, he's starting to sweat. He works his arms and helps them take off his shirts, the fiddly little buttons giving them all three trouble, and Dean kicks off his shoes.

Castiel takes one hand, Sam the other. They pull him to his feet.

Sam leans in first to kiss him, but Dean is barely melting into it when Sam's lips are gone and the exotic difference of Castiel is there in his place. They trade off a few times; he can't keep up, alcohol settling heavy and warm in his veins. He lets them handle him, kiss him, touch him everywhere. Someone's nimble fingers find one of his nipples, and he lets out a surprised moan--in the next instant, fingers on the other one and a mouth, oh fuck, Sam's mouth on his nipple.

Dean's cock blurts precome into his boxer briefs.

Only a split second passes before Castiel's hand is on him, kneading him through his slacks. The angel's face is a study of desires. Dean can't believe it's happening, but when Cas drops to his knees, Dean can't argue with the evidence. He's divested of his pants; they fall to his ankles, and Cas digs him out of his Y-front.

Immediately, the head gets sucked between Castiel's lips.

With a cry, Dean sags backward, but Sam is there to catch him around the middle, and hold him more or less upright. Castiel, inexperienced but eager, goes to town on Dean's cock with lips and tongue and spit. He's getting Dean sopping wet, taking him deep enough to gag. He tongues the slit, and laps up every pulse of precome.

Someone is moaning, loud and unabashed--distantly, Dean realizes it's him.

Sam's lips attack his earlobe, the nerves behind it, the side of his neck where teeth make appearance and start working on what's gonna be one monster of a hickey. Caught between two points of light, snared in the arms of the ones he loves, Dean feels orgasm rocketed up from his depths and knows it won't be long. Castiel works on his cock like it's the only thing he's ever wanted to taste, and Sam's needy grunts right there at his ear--Dean shakes, he can't--

He comes with a slack-jawed cry.

Sam moans, latching on. Castiel swallows it all.

Lost and blind, Dean grapples for Castiel's hair, backward at Sam's, holding them both close. He milks out every drop of pleasure until he's spent. Castiel pulls off when he starts to soften, and gently, he and Sam ferry Dean's limp form over to the bed.

He's still panting, open-mouthed, when they turn to one another. There are considering, tentative expressions on both faces.

“Just kiss,” he croaks when it drags on too long.

Cas shoots him a startled look. Sam laughs, high and hysterical.

Then he turns to Castiel. “Am I--”

“You have permission, yes,” Castiel says, still a little apprehensive.

Dean lumbers up on one elbow to watch as Sam steps into the angel's space, tenderly stroking up his neck, romancing him like Dean imagines he'd do with a girl. Castiel relaxes, bit by bit, until at some unspoken cue, Sam is satisfied.

When their lips meet for the first time, a little noise escapes Dean's. Nobody seems to notice.

They don't immediately ratchet up to making out like teenagers, though. Dean watches, fascinated, because other than in movies and shit, he's never seen anything like this. Sam takes Castiel apart, kiss by kiss. He's more skilled than Dean would have given him credit for (experience notwithstanding), but rather than feed any jealousy, all it does is turn Dean on. Lazy pleasure builds, his body protesting--he's not sixteen anymore, for fuck's sake.

But by the time Sam slides the trench coat from Castiel's shoulders and pulls him closer, Dean is hard again.

Castiel looks so small in Sam's arms, helplessly pinned there like a butterfly in the face of the world's most thorough maelstrom. Sam looks perfectly content to do this all night, and while Dean could definitely watch this all night, his cock is getting impatient. Again, already? Jesus fuck, he hasn't been this horny in years.

“Get him out of the suit, Sammy,” he instructs from the bed.

Sam chuckles in a low register, into Castiel's mouth, and does what he's told. Buttons undone, suit jacket discarded, he goes to work on Castiel's dress shirt. Watching two guys in suits molest one another wouldn't have been high on Dean's to-watch list, but now he has no idea why he never wanted to see this before. It's fascinating, and fucking hot.

Castiel's shaking hands try to do the same to Sam, but Sam eludes him, deftly undoing the buttons at Castiel's wrists. The shirt joins the jacket on the floor. Castiel is wearing one of Dean's old undershirts, one with a hole on the side--and when Dean sees that, he gets a wicked idea.

His tongue finds the hole before either of the other two even register hearing the bed springs. Dean laves over smooth skin, tasting worn cotton and Cas. He strokes himself when he hears the shocked noise and subsequent hum he pulls from the angel.

One of Sam's hands finds his hair, grabs, and pulls his head back roughly from his prize.

Dean grins foggily up at his brother. “You want some, too?” he slurs.

“Yeah, I want you to put that pretty mouth to use,” Sam says, no hesitation, his other hand working on Castiel's fly. Dean looks to see, and discovers to his surprise and delight that Sam has already lost his pants and boxers. His cock looks as delicious as it ever did. Maybe a little bit bigger. Long, straining upward against its own weight, head the color of Sam's kiss-bitten lips. Dean is definitely on board with this.

He's even more on board when Sam pulls Castiel's cock from his fly, and both brothers still to drink in the sight. It's rosy, flushed, hard as nails and fatter than either Sam's or Dean's. Dean's ass clenches involuntarily at the thought of having that driven inside him again and again. He wants that; oh, he does.

But first, he's got to get both of them in his mouth. Now.

It's difficult, and sloppy, but he switches off and makes it work until neither one of them can speak but for gasping swears and his name. It's a beautiful sound, that drawn-out syllable. Dean hums his approval into both their cocks, listening to them moan, tasting differences that fade away as he works. Soon, they taste the same. Dean's hips work against thin air.

He switches back to Cas, sucks hard, swirls his tongue, and the hardness in his mouth swells impossibly larger with a keen from overhead. Dean is ready for the taste, but not the quantity. He chokes on the flood of come that Castiel shoots down his throat.

A groan from Sam; hot pulses land on his neck, his ear, and all up in his hair.

Dean pulls off Cas, turning to glare up at his brother, who looks so embarrassed that Dean can't be mad. He feels his expression soften. “Get me a towel, bitch,” he says, with a little swat to Sam's bare thigh.

Sam hisses at the sting of Dean's nails; “Jerk,” he retorts, but stops looking so unhappy.

He even gets on his knees to clean Dean off.

Sitting back on his heels, Dean looks up, back and forth between them both. Castiel has perched on the edge of the bed, the rest of his clothes discarded. His eyes are locked on Dean's cock, sticky and dark with most of the blood in Dean's body. Dean feels the stare like actual fingers on his skin--

No, wait. That's Sam.

He bats his brother's hand away. “Want to get fucked, I said,” he reminds them both.

With a groan of bed springs, Cas leans forward and drapes himself over Dean. “That can be arranged,” he murmurs, completely unfairly, in Dean's ear. Dean groans and leans back into him, opening himself up for Sam to reach for his erection and stroke. He's so hard already, but since he came once, there's no immediate threat of orgasm. He sinks into the spreading heat, pinpricks of arousal dancing across every inch of his skin.

“Let's get him up on the bed,” Castiel says to Sam. “I'd like to try something.”

“Oh?”

“I saw it on the television one night.” They're lifting Dean up between them, not so much getting him to his feet as picking him up and carrying him. Somewhere between there and the bed, Dean loses his underwear. “The people performing the act seemed to like it very much.”

“What?” Dean asks.

Castiel smiles faintly, remembering. His cock twitches, trying to get back in the game already. “I don't know what it's called,” he says, “but there was a man at each end of a woman's body, one of them inside her and the other in her mouth.”

“Oh,” Sam says faintly. He drops Dean's leg to grab at himself, his lip curling a little. “Dual penetration,” he says, at the same time Dean says, "Spitroast."

“Yes!” Castiel flicks his eyes from Sam's hand to Dean on the bed, and back. “I've wanted to see Dean like that ever since.”

Dean whines under his breath.

“I know what you mean,” Sam says with a lewd grin.

It's odd (but to Dean's surprise, not awkward) to be talked about like he's not here. He's actually more content than he'd figure to be manhandled by Castiel into a doggy-style position on the bed, while Sam goes and hunts down some lube. In fact, they're still talking to one another when they get into position, remarking about various ways to fill someone up and fuck them 'til they can't stand. Their conversational tone only serves to make it hotter, more incredible.

“So, I'll start,” Sam tells the angel, “and you take your cues wherever.”

“I have an idea,” Castiel replies.

One of Sam's fingertips, slick with lube, slides its way down the crack of Dean's ass right to his little furl. It feels--it's--oh, Sam is dipping inside, teasing, swirling the callused pad of his finger around on the sensitive skin. Dean whines, canting his hips back for more.

Sam gives it to him, twisting his fingertip inside. Castiel, sitting on his heels in front of Dean, tips Dean's chin up and smiles at him, pupils blown completely wide, before hauling him into a kiss. Dean moans into the angel's mouth as his brother forges in deeper. He can feel Sam's knuckles against his ass. Sam pulls the finger out, drives it back in, a slow mime of fucking. Dean feels it everywhere. He didn't know he could want this badly in the soles of his feet or the roots of his hair.

He suckles on Castiel's tongue like it's a lifeline.

By the time Sam has worked up to three fingers, Dean is moaning with every breath. He clutches at Castiel, sliding down, and Castiel guides him. Ass in the air, face pressed into the cheap nylon comforter, Dean loses himself in the feeling of Sam inside him. He loves being filled, has always fucked himself on his own fingers – he always loved it when Sam did this, too, as much as the memories have been forcibly faded by his own fucking stupidity – but this is a million times better. Of course it is. His chest might swell to bursting with how much he loves these two men, a sensation he never let out of its cage until now.

Slowly, Sam begins to withdraw his fingers. Dean whines as they go. Castiel strokes the side of his face, murmuring something Dean can't hear for the blood rushing in his ears.

Sam's fingers are replaced with the head of Sam's cock. He pushes in, at first almost glacially – Dean takes care of that, working his hips down the length. _“Ah, ah, ah,”_ he's chanting, mindless.

He feels the spurs of Sam's hips settle against his ass, and flexes against the intrusion.

With a grunt, Sam doubles over his back. “Oh, _fuck,_ Dean,” he groans.

“That's your job, Sammy.”

“I fucking _missed_ this,” his brother says, strained, and fucks into Dean so hard that Dean can't help his cries.

Immediately, Sam sets out for a punishing rhythm, and in no time at all he's jolting Dean up the bed toward Castiel. Dean doesn't know when he closed his eyes, but they fly open, zeroing in on the sight of Castiel lazily stroking himself in half-time to Sam's sharp thrusts.

“Cas,” Dean gasps.

“Do you want me, Dean?” Oh, he's never heard that tone from the angel before.

Keening, Dean tosses his head. “Yes,” he moans. “ _Yeah_. Give it to me.”

“All right,” Castiel grunts, thighs flexing, propelling him up and right into Dean's face. Dean opens his mouth –

And _this_ is what it's like to be filled so completely. Why has he never done this before?

 _Probably_ , he tells himself hazily, _because these are the only two people I trust, and I had no fucking clue I could've had them all along._

_Better make up for lost time._

Like a candle burning at both ends, Dean is suffused with fiery pleasure, wave after wave of it. Between Sam's punishing rhythm, and the way each thrust forces Castiel in deeper, Dean doesn't even try to breathe. Lack of oxygen just feeds the feeling.

Sam's sticky hands readjust their hold. He starts pulling Dean back harder onto his cock, smacks of skin on skin growing louder and louder. Dean is making all the noise he can, truncated hums and spat-out grunts, the vibrations of which he can tell are driving Castiel batshit insane. The angel is holding on to his head for dear life, bent over him, breaths rasping in and out of his heaving chest. He sounds like he might die, but like it'd be the best thing he's ever experienced.

There's no telling how much time passes. Dean's eyes have slipped closed again. He exists in a state of permanent, mind-numbing arousal that surges exponentially every time Sam adjusts his angle.

“Sam,” Castiel suddenly gasps, “can you find his prostate?”

“I can,” Sam grunts, “ _ungh,_ try,” and he works his hips, shoves in again, right on target.

Dean howls around Castiel's cock, thrashing, wanting to squirm both closer and far away. The searing point of pleasure Sam just found was the same thing Dean has always tried to include in his solo sessions, but he could never quite reach without toys. He just wasn't that flexible, line of work be damned. This, though, is fucking perfect – Sam's cock so long and hard inside him, riding up on the most sensitive part of him, strong and acute and _oh,_ it's too much –

Shaking, garbling moans around his mouthful, Dean comes all over the bed without a single touch to his cock.

His ass flutters around Sam, whose fingers tighten on Dean's hips.

“Cas,” Sam pants, “I'm gonna come soon. I want--can you?” Sam breaks off with a plaintive whine when Dean clenches around him again.

“What do you need?” Castiel asks him breathlessly, hips pumping against Dean's face. He draws out, slick little slide and pop of Dean's lips, and gets off the bed. He walks around behind.

Dean has never wished he could see something so strongly in his life. Why couldn't they be doing this in one of the hourly rooms? He's never seen the appeal of sex mirrors until this very moment.

 _“Cas,”_ Sam mewls.

With a curse, Dean tries to look at them over his shoulder. He sees one of Castiel's arms, wrapped around Sam, sees Sam's head tossed back with eyes closed and an expression of ecstasy that nearly looks pained. His hips stutter, grinding, losing their steady rhythm.

Wait.

“Are you fucking _fingering him?”_ Dean blurts, his voice like a cement mixer.

Sam moans, high and long. He spreads his legs a little wider.

“Fuck him like you mean it,” Dean hears Castiel say. “Let me take care of you.”

“God _damn_ ,” Sam says, letting go of one of Dean's hips to bite at his own fist.

He does as he's told.

It's only about five minutes, Dean thinks, but fuck. He'll remember every second of this, no matter how much he's been drinking. Sam works between the two of them, making so much noise, Dean thinks it's a miracle no one's been knocking on the walls. Maybe they're the only three people left in the world, somehow. That'd be just fine.

When Sam comes, it's with a shuddering series of open-mouthed noises, pumping his load as deep into Dean as it can go. Castiel murmurs him through it, no doubt working with dexterous fingers to eke out every bit of Sam's pleasure until he's completely spent.

Laughing, Sam begs him off. Dean looks back around to the front, clenching his ass a few more times for good measure--until with a lip-bit, overstimulated noise Sam pulls out.

Dean flops on his side, working the kink out of his neck. He can see Castiel step around Sam, wiping his fingers on the comforter, not looking away until Sam meets his eyes.

Then, they both look as one to Dean.

He grins. “We ain't done.”

At their startled, raised eyebrows, he smirks pointedly at Castiel. “Everybody gets two,” he says.

“Oh!” Castiel says. “I--" He looks down at himself, and his still interested cock. “I'm fine.” He smiles down at Dean, unconcerned. “I've felt more pleasure tonight than I ever have.”

“That doesn't mean we're gonna leave you hangin',” Dean says, his voice hitching with the effort it takes to sit up.

“Dean--”

“No, he's right,” Sam says. He looks exhausted, but his eyes glitter. “Get on the bed.”

“How?” Castiel asks, uncertain.

Dean pats the mattress beside him. “Lie back.”

The angel does, eyes flicking from one to the other. Dean ranges over him, smoothing a palm down Castiel's chest. There's a heartbeat, and breaths. He feels them viscerally.

Sam kneels at the edge of the bed, opposite Dean.

With a heated grin at one another, they bend as one and tilt their heads to lick up either side of Castiel's cock, together.

Instantly, Castiel's abs contract; he tenses and utters a high-pitched noise. His fingers dig into the comforter near Dean's knee. Dean focuses on licking wherever Sam isn't, but most of the time their tongues overlap on the hot, sensitive skin. They get Castiel soaking wet, sucking and nipping, taking turns ducking over the head or slurping up every drop of precome.

By the time it seems obvious that Cas is about to come, he's writhing beneath them. Sam has a restraining arm draped casually over his pelvis. Dean is making out with his brother around the angel's cock, finding his mouth everywhere he can. They're both moaning under their breath.

“Sam,” Castiel bawls, “Dean--!”

He comes spectacularly, arching over the bed, pulsing so hard it arcs through the air and lands on everything. Sam giggles, actually giggles when drops land on his face. Dean has to laugh, too, when they sit back. He reaches out and swipes some of it from his brother's skin.

Castiel is opening his eyes, trembling from the force of his orgasm. Dean makes sure to meet his gaze as he raises a come-covered fingertip to his lips.

With a groan, Castiel tips his head back, and closes his eyes again.

 

* * *

 

“So,” Sam says in a deep, sleepy voice, “everybody happy?”

They're relatively clean and incredibly sated, puppy-piled in the other, dry bed. Castiel is in the middle, with Dean wrapped around him like an apostrophe, and Sam flat on his back on the other side. His arm is serving as Castiel's neck pillow.

Dean hums his confirmation, too tired to open his mouth.

“Were you concerned that we wouldn't be?” Castiel asks.

It's a long moment before Sam answers.

“Yeah,” he says. “I kinda was. There's been a lot going on lately, and... well, I was getting worried about various mental states.” His hand finds Dean's hair, strokes it a little.

“I understand that,” Castiel says. As he drowses, his voice gets deeper. Dean likes it. He can feel the rumble up through Castiel's chest. Coupled with the warmth of his body, it's like the best Magic Fingers ever.

He hears them keep talking, and he really does want to listen--but somewhere along the line he tunes it out, and falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

The next morning could have been awkward as hell, but it isn't.

Breakfast is found at a nearby diner. Castiel orders strawberry-smothered pancakes. Dean busies himself dabbing whipped cream on noses and earlobes until Sam nearly upsets the whole table trying to get him back. They realize they're acting like children, and settle down, but can't stop grinning at each other.

Or touching each other. Despite being three grown men in public, there's more footsie under that table than Dean has ever played in his life.

At least they let him drive in peace.

 

* * *

 

When they get back to the motel, Sam checks his email, and the mood instantly sours when he turns the laptop to show them an email from the Sunspot.

“You signed up?” Dean says, eyeing it in distaste.

“With a throwaway account,” Sam says. “I figured it'd be important, and look: they're having an 'impromptu' open-mic night.”

“They're onto us,” Dean and Castiel say in unison.

Dean grins down at the carpet.

“Yeah,” Sam muses. “They must be gearing up to suck as much... whatever from those girls, as they can. They'll probably try to skip town tonight.”

“Well, they're not gonna get too far when they're dead,” Dean says. “Cas, grab the weapons duffel, would you? We're gonna assign you some pieces.”

 

* * *

 

They have to wait until dark to make their move, but fortunately, there are other ways to pass the time.

Only about a third of them have to do with weaponry.

 

* * *

 

That night when they arrive, the Sunspot is _packed_.

There isn't any parking to be had, even if Dean wanted Baby that close to the action. They find a secluded spot around back of a furniture store down the street. After they'd cleaned up that afternoon, Dean taught Cas how to conceal his new weaponry, and as the angel moves with them down the street Dean is proud to see nothing at all.

Their friend--now, lover--really seems to have taken to the family business. Dean knows that Sam has got to be as glad as he is.

Amid the cacophony inside the place, a different hostess greets them tonight. She's tall, thin, and serious, with dark lipstick. Dean can tell that she's suspicious of them – after all, this is a hangout for people who aren't yet old enough to drink – but he throws on his most convincing smile. It might be his resemblance to one of the owners (gag) but she lets them through.

They find a table in full view of the makeshift stage, and the offices. Sharp eyes consider exits and individuals without looking any more interested than they would at the post office. There are pubescent children everywhere, dressed in their own kinds of fashion, no two of them alike. Voices wash over Dean. All of them are vulnerable, and none of them even suspect there's any danger.

 _Just like everyone, all the time,_ Dean thinks wearily.

Eventually, someone climbs up on the stage, and taps the mic. It's the other Sam. He looks far too happy to be where he is, squinting against the bright stage lights.

“How's everybody doing tonight?” he asks, and is answered by a roar.

He grins, and waits for them to quiet again. “We've got a treat for you this evening,” he says. “I know lots of you want a chance to get up here, and for the next few hours you'll get it, but first I'd like to introduce a close friend of mine.” He beckons offstage.

A familiar girl approaches with a wide, nervous smile.

“I'd like you all to give a warm, Sunspot welcome to Miss Kleo!”

Thunderous applause. Dean has to work hard at not staring around at all of them like they belong in an institution. _They don't know any better_ , he reminds himself. _They think it's all genuine._

“Thank you, Shawn. I love you!” Kleo says into the mic.

Dean thinks he hears the guy tell her he loves her, too. It makes him sick. He hears Castiel growl a little, low in his throat, and sees Sam abort an involuntary shake of his head.

“I wrote a song earlier that I'd like to share with you,” the girl says. “It's about our two favorite guys.”

A howl goes up, whoops and catcalls. She grins even wider.

Turning behind her, she disappears from the spotlight a moment and comes back with a stool, and a guitar.

Distinctly, Castiel mutters, “I must use the restroom.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Dean says under his breath.

Sam stands to let Castiel pass, his eyes still fixed up front, the look on his face struggling not to exceed mild dubiousness. The girl has seated herself, and is checking a string with a frown on her face. It's a testimony to the hold that those two have on this crowd that everyone is poised in anticipation, and not the least bit impatient while she tunes.

When Sam sits back down, he leans over. “What is going on?”

“Dunno,” Dean grunts.

Clearing her throat, Kleo leans into the microphone. _“Sometimes, I am miles away,”_ she sings in a rich contralto. _“But you both feel close to me. Sometimes, I am here all day, and it feels like I am free.”_

“She could sing jazz,” Sam remarks.

Dean snorts, holding in what would have been a very loud laugh. Sam knows exactly what he thinks of jazz music.

 _“I can't describe what it's doing to me, but I like it,”_ Kleo sings, really leaning into some of the words. _“I can't deny what this feeling is, I cannot hide it._

_“You are so perfect in every way, and I----I want to give you the sky.”_

She goes on like that forever. It isn't until she's strumming out a long, rambling coda that Dean realizes Cas has been in the restroom for a very long time.

Glancing around the crowded room, he notices right away that two very prominent faces are also absent.

“Go time,” he mutters to Sam, and stands.

He pastes a vaguely interested look on his face, one that most people seem to ignore out of hand, and thus inconspicuous makes his way back to the restrooms. One hand on the door, he pushes. No one. A glance down the hallway tells him where Cas has gone: the exit door is propped open, revealing a sliver of sickly light pollution.

Dean draws closer, and begins to make out the grunts and crashes of a fight.

He speeds up, slamming the door open, stumbling out into the overgrown alley behind the Sunspot.

Castiel, his face a mask of intense concentration, is fighting what appears to be two shadows, moving with liquid grace. Monochrome and ethereal, their forms weave in and out of one another, all at once two entities and one. It's difficult for Dean to tell where one ends and the other begins, especially due to the speed and ferocity with which they're fighting Cas.

The angel is holding his own in an impressive display. Dean knows that Castiel has commanded garrisons, gone into wars -- what he didn't know was that Castiel can also fight like a boss. Knives flash, silver and bronze, one in each hand. It's a deadly, highly-choreographed dance.

It looks like something out of a fucking movie.

When Castiel whirls, he ducks and stabs, nearly scoring a hit several times. Dean isn't sure if you can even stab a shadow, and Castiel seems to be coming to the same conclusion. He looks furious. He also looks to be tiring, whereas the shadowmen aren't letting up. They'll kill him, unless...

Dean hurls himself into the fray.

Quickly, he learns that you _can't_ stab one of these, but you can for some reason kick it in the shin. It staggers away, spitting foreign words that sound like curses, and the other one flickers where it stands. Vaguely humanoid features form a moue of surprise.

It seems perfectly reasonable for Dean to wind back, and throw a punch.

In all his years, all the things he's seen and killed, Dean has never participated in a brawl like this. One in five of his blows actually land, and it feels like he's hitting a waterbed. He watches intently for some kind of sign, anything, to tell him when they're solid...er. They don't even flicker.

One of them rams into him from behind. He goes staggering up the alley, cursing, trying to regain his footing. He spins, ducks a blow. Jabs a fist in the shadowman's midsection. It grunts, and to Dean it sounds like he punched a wet pillow. His hand feels weird.

He distantly hears a crash of the door, and Sam's bellowed, _“Dean!”_

“You can't shoot or stab them,” Castiel calls to him, out of breath. He ducks, wheels around; he presses his back to Dean's. “Sam, be careful!”

One of the shadowmen is behind him. Dean makes out a twisted version of his own goddamned smirk before it's driving a thick arm of shadow-stuff into Sam's head. Dean hears the ripe sound of it when it connects, and feels it like another punch to the gut when he sees his brother's eyes roll back.

Sam drops like a stone, and that.

Is.

_It._

_“You do not_ screw _with my family!”_ Dean screams. He grabs the nearest shadowman by both sides of its face. He squeezes as hard as he can, then harder – it flails in his grasp, but he holds on grimly. He has a hunch, and the more tangible his quarry becomes, the more he's validated.

Their fear makes them into something he can touch.

Something he can kill.

“You do not _fuck with me,”_ he tells it, and squeezes with all he's got.

It pops like a nasty balloon, spraying thick, gray goop all over him. “Augh!” He peels some of it off of his face, flinging it from his hands. “Damnit,” he whines, “that's gross.”

“Dean!”

He whirls. “Shit, Cas!”

The angel is pinned between a Dumpster, the wall, and the other shadowman. It's fighting like it has nothing left to lose – and Dean supposes it doesn't. With a sickening sense of understanding, he knows exactly how it feels. He doesn't have to look back at Sam's crumpled form to feel the same, flooding rage.

Skip and a step, he launches into a run, picking up speed until he barrels that thing right into the wall of the Sunspot with all the force of the demon-possessed. It cries out, squashed into the cinder block. He grabs it like he did its other half, thumbs where its cheekbones should be.

Dean puts his face right up against its watery expression of terror. He makes sure it's looking him in the eye.

“You picked the wrong fucking faces to wear,” he snarls.

The shadowman joins its lover; spread across Dean's skin, and the ground.

One breath, that's all Dean takes, before he's throwing his goop-covered self back up the alley and skidding to his knees beside Sam. His brother is unconscious, but alive, and Dean barely refrains from giving him some kind of brain damage when he grabs at Sam's shoulders with shaking hands.

“Wake up,” he pleads, searching the slack face. “Sammy, come on.”

No response, so he shakes him a little. Harder. _Harder._ “Sam!”

 _“Dean,”_ Castiel says urgently in his ear, tugging him away. Stricken, he sits back.

Sam stirs.

Coughing, he groans, his brow furrowing in pain.

Dean sags in Castiel's arms and finally lets himself breathe.

 

* * *

 

Amid the confusion, while people are frantically searching for the stars of the show, the three duck quietly out of the alley. Sam is moving a little slower than usual, but he's fine. Dean is fucking exhausted. There's nothing like nearly losing the two people closest to him to really remind him how tiring this life can be.

They pile into the car, but once the doors are closed, Dean hesitates to turn the engine over. He grips the wheel for a moment.

Then, he turns with one arm over the seat, and finds Castiel's eyes.

“You were awesome,” he says.

Castiel beams at him.

Beside him, Sam is nodding. “You really were,” he said. “I mean, I missed most of it --”

“No shame in gettin' skull-tapped now and again,” Dean interjects, ribbing him.

Sam purses his lips at him. “--but,” he says pointedly to Dean, before looking back to Cas, “what I did see was pretty damn impressive.”

His eyes find Dean's again, and they share one of those indefinable moments between them -- before they turn back to Castiel as one, and say,

“Welcome to the family.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought of it? x


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